The Changeling
by TwiTricksandTreats
Summary: Story Summary: Perpetual outsider Bella only fit in with one person, but now that he's dead, she doesn't see any reason why she shouldn't run away with the beryl-eyed stranger who makes her blood burn. She gets more than she bargained for. Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.


Title of Story: The Changeling

Rating: T

Pairing: Edward/Bella

Genre: Supernatural/Romance

Wordcount: 7,828

Story Summary: Perpetual outsider Bella only fit in with one person, but now that he's dead, she doesn't see any reason why she shouldn't run away with the beryl-eyed stranger who makes her blood burn. She gets more than she bargained for.

Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **The Changeling**

Sometimes, life goes _seriously wrong_.

In Bella Swan's experience, _seriously wrong_ happens more often than not. Like now.

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," Bella mutters, wrinkling her nose at both the pungent scent of fresh pumpkin and the utterly disgusting feel of pumpkin innards slick between her fingers. _So gross_. "I can't believe you convinced me to do this without _blackmail._ "

Angela grins widely, unrepentantly cheerful and apparently unbothered by how gross pumpkin carving actually is. "I didn't even have to bribe you," she reminds Bella cheerfully. "You agreed, just like _that_."

Bella can do little else except quietly seethe, because Angela is unfortunately right once again. Getting roped into this is her own damn fault. She could have been doing anything else – really – but then Angela turned her big brown eyes onto her and, just like the rest of their clique, Bella was helpless to deny her. To be fair, Angela had really convincing arguments at the time.

Like, for example, doing this technically qualified as volunteering – because _small towns_ \- which Bella truly needed considering that _little_ incident involving Bella, a motorcycle she technically wasn't supposed to have, Mrs. Mallory's formerly-prized begonias, and the newest demerit on her record. This _had_ seemed like a nice, painless way to start in on all those long hours of community service Charlie simply _insisted_ she serve. A fun, harmless activity practically dripping with parental approval? Sure. Except for the _fun_ part. And the harmless part, since Bella is pretty sure her hands are going to forever be stained pumpkin-orange.

Ugh.

Bella narrows her eyes at Angela, and a handful of pulpy seeds slips from Bella's hand, landing on the plastic-covered table with a _splat_. On her other side, Jessica is reaching into her pumpkin with quiet gagging noises, whispering _ew, ew, ew_ just under her breath. Bella can empathize. She's abruptly very relieved that Renee wasn't exactly a model parent when she was a kid, since pumpkin carving is _definitely_ a childhood memory she skipped out on.

Never again. Bella would rather be on the side of the highway, picking up litter with those weird stabby-pick things. Hell, she would rather be fending off Mike Newton's increasingly creepy overtures than spend the next three hours dealing with pumpkins and bratty, suspiciously sticky children. Her hearing would probably never be the same, because children are completely incapable of expressing themselves as a decibel _not_ destined to burst ear drums.

A piercing squeal sounds in the air, the pitch either indicating happiness or fear or maybe some biological need like hunger. Bella scowls, pitch-dark eyes skimming over the crowd of prepubescent runts gathered around the wide yard in front of Fork's very own Church of Latter-day Saints. "Aren't church kids supposed to be quiet and well-behaved?" Bella grouses.

Angela snorts indelicately.

"You're the worst," Bella informs her bluntly.

"I'm a preacher's kid," Angela retorts with a wry smile. "It comes with the territory."

"She says to the police chief's kid," she replies sardonically.

"Yes, well-"

"Oh, don't you two start," Jessica huffs before Angela and Bella can descend into yet another mostly-friendly tiff over which of them is supposed to be the most rebellious according to urban wisdom. Never mind, of course, that everyone in Forks is well-aware that Angela really is an angel and that the chip on Bella's shoulder is getting heavier by the day. "It's bad enough I'm elbow deep in this… _goop_. I don't need to hear you two argue about who is the worst. You're both equally bad, okay? You're both as bad as this entire day."

"Gee, Jess, I didn't know you felt so strongly about it," Bella says.

"Oh, bite me."

Bella scoffs. "Wow, nice comeback. It's so _basic_."

"Maybe _you're_ basic," Jessica shoots back.

"Hey, I'm not the one buying candles and wearing Uggs and waiting in line every morning for a pumpkin spice latte," Bella jeers.

Jessica makes a face. "God, you're such a bitch."

Bella grins. "Yeah, I know. You are, too."

Angela sighs, long-suffering. "Not in front of impressionable ears, girls."

Bella rolls her eyes, jabbing her dumb plastic carving knife in the direction of the oblivious children. "Please, they're not paying attention – look, they're too busy massacring helpless gourds to give a shit."

"Then not in front of the church."

"I highly doubt Jesus gives a fuck about my language."

Jessica titters. "And if he does?"

Bella shrugs. "I'm atheist."

At that, Jessica explodes into laughter almost as obnoxious as the children's, which is certainly some kind of feat. She doubles over, smearing pumpkin juice all over her insulated Northface jacket as she clutches at her ribs.

Angela merely shakes her head with an indulgent smile, as non-judgmental as ever as she goes about carefully and expertly carving a joyful face onto her pumpkin. "They aren't gourds, by the way."

"What?"

"Pumpkins," Angela explains. "They aren't gourds or squash, though they do belong to the same family of vegetables. Although, obviously, pumpkins are technically considered fruits."

"Fascinating," Bella deadpans, cutting a jagged line into the front of her pumpkin.

Angela continues on, unaffected by Bella's attitude. "It is fascinating, actually. Did you know that pumpkins weren't originally used for jack-o-lanterns? See, the Irish are the originators of Halloween and way back when, since pumpkins didn't exist in Ireland, the Celtic pagans used turnips instead. When the tradition migrated overseas, pumpkins were used instead, probably since they were more readily available. Of course, regardless of whether a turnip or a pumpkin is used, jack-o-lanterns are still intended to ward off dark spirits during All Hallows Eve where the veil between the living and the dead was thought to be thinnest. It's kind of funny, actually, that modern jack-o-lanterns are usually rather jolly, since the originals were intended to be garish in order to properly scare the spirits away."

Bella turns her head, staring at Angela with disbelief.

Angela blinks at her. "What?"

"Uh, any explanation for the impromptu history lesson?"

"Oh, that. Dad had me put together little pamphlets for the kids – I guess the information just stuck."

"You have pamphlets."

"They're laminated."

"Of course they are."

"You can take one home, too. Proof for the Chief that you actually showed up, you know?"

Bella sighs, because Charlie _would_ like proof of her whereabouts considering all she's put him through this past year. "You, Angela Weber, are a saint and much too pure for this world."

Angela dimples at her, then leans over to take a good long look at Bella's pumpkin. Her smile widens with mirth, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. "And your pumpkin is gruesome enough for the Celtic pagans."

Bella takes a step back, admiring her handiwork of wonky eyes and a too-wide, slanted grimace carved into her pumpkin. It's positively hideous, really, the stuff of nightmares. Totally awful. She rolls her eyes and dispassionately says, "Oh, fuck you. Like yours is any better."

Angela sniffs primly. "I'll have you know I'm a regular Michelangelo, only pumpkin is my medium."

Bella scoffs. "Sure you are – and _I'm_ still a virgin."

For the second time in ten minutes, Jessica bursts into laughter.

Bella casts her eyes to the sky, arms crossed over her chest, and summons every last ounce of dwindling patience she possesses. Only two more hours left. She can do this.

 _Stay strong_ , she tells herself.

She does, mostly. At the very least, she doesn't traumatize any of the kids _too_ badly, which is better than she could have hoped for – really. Because Bella, as a person, isn't exactly _good_. She's kind of spinning, sinking, drowning like a gutter going nowhere, moving further and further away from the person she used to be without any idea how to get back to _normal_. She doesn't even know if she wants to get back to normal, or if things can ever _be_ normal again. Was anything ever normal in the first place?

Probably not.

What _is_ normal after a stroke of bad luck that turns deadly and rips her best friend's life away? What does _that_ normal look like?

Bleak, as far as Bella is concerned. Bleak and strange and filled with anger that has no place to go except for _inside_. And if sometimes that anger makes Bella do stupid shit like inadvertently destroy property because the vapid Homecoming Queen let her mouth run on the anniversary of Jake's death? Well, then that's just how it is.

Because life is _seriously wrong_ , so why should she even try to be _right_?

Later, after Bella trudges home and plops her horrific jack-o-lantern on the coffee table right beside Charlie's propped feet and only wins a disgruntled grunt in response, Bella can't help but think that life is _seriously wrong_ all of the time.

Or maybe, like she's always suspected, _Bella_ is the thing that's seriously wrong.

 ***the changeling***

"They're not going to let you do it."

"Shut up, Alice."

"She's right, you know. She's always right."

"Fuck off, Jasper."

"You _know_ why they won't let you do it, Edward," Alice sighs, somewhat apologetically. "It's nothing personal."

He whirls around, baring his teeth at her in agitation. "Not personal? How can it not be personal? The whole damn Court is discriminating against me."

"Against your great-grandfather, actually," Jasper points out, coolly. He tilts his head back, peering up at the thick clouds in the dark sky through the craggy archways, and promptly tunes out of the conversation just like he always does. Dick.

"And since I'm descended from him, they're discriminating against _me_ ," Edward snarls, jaw ticking tightly as he fists his hands at his sides. He staves off the ripple beneath his skin and takes several deep breaths to cool his temper.

"Can you blame them?" Alice whispers, glancing around to make sure they aren't overheard in the cavernous corridor, one of many halls adjacent to the Court. "The Mad Tyrant, King Balor, isn't exactly a bright spot in our history. _You_ might not be as mad as he was, but tensions are running high around here already and demons have long memories."

Long memories and temperaments running hot enough that grudges are held for a very long time. Edward is quite aware.

Edward shakes his head. "They should give me a chance to salvage the honor of my bloodline," he insists stubbornly.

"Have you ever known the Queens to be that reasonable?"

Edward bristles. "I'm still of royal lineage," he says hotly. "Even with a disgraced bloodline, I'm the only male heir of the Fomorian people – and Court decorum demands that the Queens at least entertain my appeal."

This, Edward knows, is the only edge that he has, and he plans to exploit it for all its worth. After all, the Queens can no more deny his right to petition than they can deny his heritage, which is plainly visible on his face and in his eyes.

"Besides, who better to retrieve the Sidhe heiress than the Fomorian heir?" he queries with a sly smirk. "It's my right as her betrothed."

Alice huffs, propping her hands on her hips. She looks every inch a Sidhe, all slight limbs and elfin features, and he is just as vexed that she keeps pestering him as he always is; but, because Jasper is an _idiot_ , he can't get away from the tiny terror. "You're _delusional_ ," she declares with a stomp of her foot. "There's no way any of the Queens are actually going to honor that. It was signed _ages_ ago!"

"Yes," he agrees. "Signed in blood. It's a binding contract."

And Edward is willing to fight for it. He's cunning and ambitious and he has a card up his sleeve that might just tip the odds in his favor. Frankly, the fact that he happens to be betrothed to the Sidhe heiress is just a means of getting his foot in the metaphorical door. He loathes Court politics, but in this case he can make them work. His status as the only male Fomorian heir in the main Clan and the fact that there exists an ancient contract declaring the end of bloodwars between the Fomorian and Sidhe through a betrothal agreement is all the leverage he needs. It just happens to be a bonus that he has the fealty of _all_ the Fomorians, which means he has an army, which means that he has power. Considerable power. The exact kind of power, actually, that all of the Clans of the Court are desperate for as of late.

Slaugh don't kill themselves, after all.

He holds little optimism that his wayward Sidhe betrothed will be any less irritating than Alice – though even if she is, it hardly matters to him. She'll be nothing more than a pawn, a thing he can maneuver in his quest to removing the stain from his Clan's honor. He doesn't have to _like_ the damn demoness.

Newly determined, Edward strides through the palace corridors, head held high. He leaves Alice and Jasper to wait for his victorious return. His confidence must be unshakeable.

He has an audience with a couple of Queens and he can't be late.

The throne room of the palace in Faoi Domhan is one of unique design, comprised of a domed ceiling in a round room, the dark stone wrapped in vines of esoteric flowers that only grow in the badlands of his home. Each time Edward has been in the throne room, he is torn between awe and fury; each element of the entire palace is an homage to Fomorian tradition. This entire palace is his heritage and, by all rights, Edward would be seated in a gold-gilded throne if not for the insanity of The Mad King; instead, he and the rest of the Fomorians have made a home in an arid desert, scraping by and surviving by the kin of their teeth. Exiled. Shamed. Punished.

But one day – yes, one day, the crown, the palace, the admiration, and Faoi Domhan will be his. One day, Edward will be exalted. One day.

Edward bows his head, a show of deference that he barely feels but must acknowledge, as he comes to stand before the Queens – the same ancient demons who had overthrown his mad ancestor and took twin thrones, ruling over them all for a thousand years. Their beauty is the stuff of legends, and truthfully Edward cannot deny that the pair of regal women are quite stunning. He does, however, have a healthy wariness of the Queens, as all should.

One does not overthrow a crazed, paranoid, tyrant of a king – the greatest, strongest demon to ever live – without being more than a little formidable.

Clíodhna, Queen of the Banshees and the First White Lady, is as pale as the morning mists creeping over the underworld, white hair spun up into a towering pouffe and pallid, almost colorless eyes, drifting aimlessly over the room. He does not believe her apparent mindless boredom for a second, just as he does not believe that her silent mouth isn't very much deadly. Her lips are sewn together with silver thread, but it does not stop her from communicating.

 _Ah. The grandest son of Balor…_ Her voice ghosts into his mind, a chilly breeze that makes his molars grind together. _For what reason do you grace us with your presence?_

"My Queens," Edward greets with a shallow dip of his chin. "I have come to make a request of you. A favor you might aid me in fulfilling, if you will."

"How amusing," comes a lilting voice. Caoránach, Queen of the Sidhe, is as disarmingly beautiful as nightshade, and probably twice as deadly. Her inhumanly perfect features shimmer with magic of trickery, for it is the Sidhe from which all legends of fairies hail, and he cannot seem to grasp her appearance for more than a second as the tones of her skin, hair, and eyes continually change. The only thing that remains are the vine-like veins, the deepest shade of violet, that serpentine beneath her skin. "What favor might we owe you?" asks the mother of his changeling betrothed.

He is not deterred by the mocking in her tone. "Rather, my Queen, it is a favor I owe to you."

 _Hmmm….yes quite interesting…_

Belatedly, Edward realizes that Clíodhna is still reading his thoughts. He banishes all the undercurrents of his motivations to the depths of his mind and brings forward his honest desire to retrieve his betrothed – secondary motives aside, such a retrieval is something that he genuinely _wants_ to do. Let Clíodhna feast on that truth.

"Begging your pardon, My Queens, but I am aware of a particular changeling who is coming into her age in a fortnight. It would be my honor to seek her out and return her to her rightful home…"

"Banal work for Balor's heir," Caoránach says shrewdly.

"I am aware that underlings are usually sent out for retrievals, but I feel that I am uniquely qualified for this task, my Queen."

"Hm. Is that so?"

Edward raises his head, shoulders straight and square even as he kneels before the two Queens. "Indeed. Is it not my right as her betrothed?"

Silence reigns in the throne room, not even a whisper of a sound as the Queens level him with piercing stares, each judging him with new eyes. Edward does not flinch from the appraisal; rather, he feels daring enough to meet those gazes bluntly, the strength of his forefather blitzing through his veins. A king does not bow his back for any reason. Neither will Edward.

Caoránach tilts her head at an unnatural angle and she raises her hand, twirling her fingers in his direction. Magic nips at his skin, prickling painfully as it forms a faint etching of a belladonna onto the top of his hand. "Permission granted."

Edward hides his victorious grin behind a grateful, graceful bow.

One day, indeed.

 ***the changeling***

The only good thing about Halloween is the candy. That's what Jake used to say, anyway. Personally, Bella hasn't ever really cared one way or another; she dressed up a few times as a kid, mostly because Renee wanted her to, but for the most part, Bella has always associated Halloween with an intense sense of longing.

That urge to be _anywhere but here_ always seems to be the strongest on Halloween.

This year, Bella gives into the urge without much resistance. She skips school, makes a pit stop at the gas station, and then cruises through town to the outskirts where the cemetery is, irreverently parking her bike right on the leaf-strewn plot. Bella stands in front of the gravestone marked _JACOB BLACK_ for a long moment, her mind flashing back to the horrific accident, the way metal squeals when it bends and glass sings when it shatters and the way blood pools so fucking fast. She swallows, a phantom pain crawling up her leg and radiating from her hip right where that ugly scar mars her snow-pale skin.

She sits with her back to the headstone, legs crossed at the ankle, and tears into Jake's favorite candy bar. Some people bring flowers to graveyards; Bella brings a _Payday_ and forces herself to eat the caramel and peanuts because Jake can't. Jake is dead. Jake can't eat this candy anymore, but Bella can do it for him. She thinks he might like that, might find it funny or whatever.

Bella hates _Paydays_.

He'd probably find that funny, too.

She doesn't know how long she sits atop Jake's grave, staring up at the grey sky and shivering through the late October morning, but eventually – inevitably – Charlie finds her. His mouth is in a steep downward frown behind the thick mustache, disapproval writ clearly across his face.

"You should be in school," he says, hands propped on his hips.

Bella shrugs. "Didn't feel like going."

"You can't just skip whenever you feel like it."

She fingers the candy bar wrapper, crinkling the sticky plastic with a remote sort of pining. "Today is the anniversary."

"It's been two years," Charlie says harshly. "You need to move on. You can't keep wasting your life away, skipping school and doing stupid shit, just because a tragedy happened. You can't just put your life on pause-"

"Doesn't stop you," she cuts in hotly.

Charlie goes still, the sort of quiet that speaks of danger rather than shock. "Excuse me?"

Bella doesn't back down, because she isn't good at doing that. She forges on, stoking her father's anger with a kind of sick glee. "You haven't moved on. Renee is dead. It's been ten years and you're wasting your life away on booze, pretending to be a public figure when really, behind closed doors, you're a complete bastard-"

Charlie slaps her across the mouth, moving so quick she didn't even have time to brace herself. She tastes blood in her mouth and spits to the side, feeling a split in her lip that she knows will be explained to concerned neighbors as yet another _clumsy accident_. Bella glares up at Charlie and doesn't even feel the slightest bit ashamed, challenging him silently to hit her again.

He doesn't, but his nostrils are flaring with a lit temper as he grunts, "You watch your mouth, girl. Go home. I don't want to see you until tomorrow morning."

Bella smiles at him, a sharp thing of bloodied teeth, and says, "Fine by me. Dick."

She climbs on her motorcycle faster than Charlie can react, roaring out of the cemetery with fire in her veins that won't – can't – be tamed. She hates her life; she hates him; she hates this stupid podunk town. If she could, she thinks she might burn it all to the ground around her and wear the ashes as a badge of pride. It's the sort of dark thought that Jake had gotten a kick out of before; but now, with nobody there to talk her down from her most volatile of urges, Bella can only think that it's a matter of time before she makes good on all her silent promises.

And wouldn't _that_ be something?

 ***the changeling***

Edward isn't sure what he expected when he found the changeling, but he wasn't expecting _her_.

The Sidhe are indelibly the most able to pass as human among demonkind, possessing only the most subtle of otherworldly qualities as opposed to the grotesque, chilling beauty of banshees and their ilk, or the bestial qualities of the Fomorians. At most, Sidhe changelings are human-passing enough that they are regarded among humans as simply being extraordinarily good-looking as perhaps the human mind is incapable of truly appreciating the faint demonic qualities in Sidhe. Strange quirks in appearance are written off as unique marks of beauty, and humans seem rather keen to accept this as reality.

Belladonna, the changeling who he is meant to retrieve, is no exception. And in fact, her Sidhe naming is rather apt considering how innocuous the girl appears. Like the Sidhe Queen, Belladonna is pale enough that her veins, the exact hue of the nightshade petals she is named after, are faintly visible beneath the skin and her eyes are two dark pools of onyx, round and lined by thick lashes. And even as she hides her face behind two silken curtains of oil-spill hair, he cannot mistake the inhuman symmetry of her facial features and bone structure for anything else but distinctly fey. Since she is not of age quite yet, her ears are not tipped and her nails, while long, are still faintly pearly and her teeth remain blunt – but those things, he is well aware, come with time and maturity.

Yes, this girl is certainly the changeling he is looking for, the changeling that he is banking a political gambit on – but almost immediately after he finds her, Edward finds himself inexplicably _bothered_.

Most changelings are switched for the sole purpose of growing up around humans, to learn about them first-hand and take that information back to their Clans so that all in the underworld can understand the humans, their cultures and their weapons. It's sleeper infiltration designed to help protect all demons. As such, most changelings are switched with infants born to individuals of influence or power, the sons and daughters of diplomats and scientists and scholars. Edward had assumed that the Sidhe Queen's daughter would be placed in a similar role.

Instead, he finds the changeling in a backwater town under a constant cloud of rain and no influential people in sight. And he doesn't understand.

Why _here_ , of all places? Whatever purpose there is to this placement, Edward is ignorant to it – and he swiftly decides that it doesn't _matter_ , because the girl is a pawn to him either way. He doesn't care at all for why she is here or what her life has been like, because in the end none of these factors make any difference to his end goals.

And then, through the glass of her window, he spies her swollen lip and the bruise purpling the side of her face, and some part of him _twists_ in displeasure. He's been covertly watching her for a few days, trying to understand this creature who he seeks to use for political gain, and he knows that only a single person in her life would dare to strike her.

It's upsetting and ironic, but not even _demons_ abuse their children.

And it has happened to a princess among demons.

Edward, surprisingly, is rather vexed by this development, and then further vexed by his own vexation. _It doesn't matter_ , he reminds himself. _She is but a pawn_.

Somehow, the words ring falsely even in his own mind. He narrows his eyes balefully at the girl, wondering at the sorcery she has managed to weave without even speaking to him, and decides rather abruptly that he would not postpone his mission any longer in order to observe his quarry. The time to strike is _now_ , when it is late and she is alone in the house and all the strangely-dressed humans on the streets collecting samples from each door have gone away. All is quiet; he will probably have no better opportunity.

And so, he climbs through her window.

 ***the changeling***

Other girls might have screamed at the sight of some… _thing_ climbing through their window after midnight. Maybe they would have frozen in fear, or began crying in terror. If she were Jessica, she would have toppled over into a dead faint from the sheer shock; Angela, ever so level-headed, might have tried to run.

Bella does none of those things.

Instead, she takes immediate action, alarm driving her to reach for the nearest heavy object – a geode rock cluster acting as a paperweight on her nightstand – and promptly hurls it at the head of the exceptionally tall, relatively well-built….man-like creature standing in her room.

He catches the rock easily, then closes his hand around it, grinding the geode into dust. He – and it is definitely a _he_ – appears mildly bemused, even as he says, "Not quite the greeting I was expecting, I must confess."

"Yeah, well most people at least _knock_ first," she says scathingly. Bella casts her eye around, searching for another weapon or _something_ , because her door is close and he looks _fast_ and there is a tingling sense of warning pebbling across her skin. Her history textbook looks promising…

His face moves in an expression that might constitute a smile, revealing two sharpened incisors. "As I'm sure you've noticed, I'm not exactly a person," he says, almost conversationally. He allows the geode dust to sift through his fingers. "Of course, you're not exactly a person, either, and human social etiquette is beyond passé."

Her first thought – naturally – is that he's definitely correct in her noticing that he's something very much _not_ human, because nobody she's ever seen has ever looked like him. There's just…He's just…Her mind struggles to reconcile how horrifying and somehow attractive he can look at the same time. Because by all rights, the strange stone-like quality of his skin, the fissures and cracks along his temple, jawline, and neck, and the way he looks like he's burning from the inside shouldn't make her heart thud in _that way_. The angular planes of his alabaster body and the embers glowing through the cracks of his skin shouldn't make liquid heat trickle down her spine. He's utterly and undeniably inhuman, fanged and with pitch-dark _claws_ and golden-yellow eyes just like beryl.

She should be afraid – not suffering through a case of mortifying arousal.

And yet, she hasn't felt afraid for a single second since he lumbered through her stupidly open window. Shocked, yes; defensive, for sure. But not scared.

If anything, she's struggling with a weird and immediate sense of recognition as she studies him.

And by the way his expression suddenly goes all perplexed, she thinks it might be the same for him.

Bella feels like she _knows_ him.

Weird.

But then the rest of what he says filters through the fog in her brain and she blurts out an instant denial. "What? I'm _not_ a person? Christ, what kind of fever dream is this?"

"I should clarify," he offers after a beat. "You are a person. You just aren't human."

She snorts. "Sure. Whatever you say."

"I'm not lying, Belladonna," he insists, looking a bit miffed.

She arches her brows at him. "That's not my name."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. My name is _Isabella_ and I think I'd know my own name, wouldn't you?"

He sighs with some frustration. "This is not going as I thought it might. You're obstinate."

Bella has heard that _once or twice_ before, and she doesn't consider it anything to be bothered about. Half-convinced that she really is dreaming, she figures she might as well play along with the machinations of her imagination. Dreams are supposed to be the subconscious telling the mind something, right? She might as well go with it.

And so she says, "Why don't you tell me what you are and why you're here. Might be a good place to start."

He stares at her for a long, immeasurable moment. Then he draws his shoulders back and says imperiously, "I am Edward, heir of Balor and the Fomorians, and you are Belladonna, daughter of the Sidhe Queen Caoránach. You are a changeling and I am here to take you home."

And then, before she can so much as scoff in derision at this crazy scenario her mind has dreamed up, he proceeds to provide proof that abruptly and decisively changes her mind.

Edward, heir of Balor, sets himself on fire. In the middle of her bedroom. At midnight. And he doesn't burn.

Her carpet, however, does. The ashy scent of charred synthetic fibers fills her bedroom, just as the vivid, unnatural blue-gold-green flames covering Edward's body from head to toe casts the rest of the room into shadow. She can _feel_ the heat, that same pseudo-blistering she gets when she's standing too close to one of the driftwood bonfires in La Push. Her mouth goes dry.

Just as abruptly, the flames vanish into nothingness, revealing Edward in all of his unscathed composure, staring at her expectantly.

"What the fuck."

Faced with a frankly overwhelming – and bizarre – of evidence that is better suited to a B-rated horror movie than real life, Bella doesn't really have much choice but to accept this new truth staring her right in the face. Because after the magic trick where Edward turns into a bona fide _Burning Man_ and she spends the next fifteen minutes running the gamut of her truly impressive crude vocabulary, it turns out that Bella has questions and Edward has _answers_. Not very good answers, because he's anything but the personification of patience, but still. Answers are answers.

So when he makes a particular declaration after sating her vast curiosity – about all her _quirks_ and her prevailing sense of displacement, mostly – Bella takes it as the final tic that cinches her impulsive decision. It helps probably that Edward leans down into her space, gently takes her chin between his fingers, and traces over her swollen lower lip right before he says, "You have no need to live among the vermin any longer, Belladonna. Come with me. Come to your home and allow demonkind to welcome their princess back. You will be much happier, of this I can assure you."

It's a pretty solid argument that is bracketed by shameless seduction, and Bella falls for it hook-line-sinker. And _maybe_ she should take a half-second to argue that not all humans are vermin, because Jake was the best person she ever knew – but it isn't like any of the people of Forks are going to be broken-hearted if she vanishes without a trace. Charlie included. And since Jake is gone…

"Take me home."

Maybe it should be a harder decision to make. Maybe she should protest or _want_ to stay and play the human she apparently is not. But…Bella has always been on the fringes, a perpetual outsider, forever feeling a sense of displacement. She doesn't belong.

She's willing to throw in with the idea that she belongs _elsewhere_.

Because there's nothing holding her _here_.

 ***the changeling***

"What are you doing?"

"Packing."

"You require nothing from this place. All of your needs will be seen to in Faoi Domhan."

"In…where?"

A sigh. "The palace in the central city of the underworld."

"Right. Well, that's great and all, but I'd like to take some things with me. Keepsakes and crap."

"A distinctly human habit, I gather, as it's completely useless. Demons have such advantageous memories that we have no need for…keepsakes."

"Guess I've been around humans for too long, then."

"Now what are you doing…What is _this_ contraption."

"It's called a motorcycle and I'm taking it with me."

"Absolutely not."

"Not really up to you, _Ed_."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't try to boss me around. And anyway, how else am I supposed to get to this palace place? I need my bike."

"If you insist."

"I do, actually…Hey, wait, how did you get here if you sneer this much at basic transportation?"

"I ran, of course."

"You _ran_? From the underworld? You can't be serious."

 ***the changeling***

The journey back to the underworld is one that takes approximately three days, and during that time, Edward comes to several conclusions: he loathes the _motorcycle_ contraption, Belladonna truly prefers the name Bella, and he is bafflingly willing to indulge most of her whims. The first two are directly related to the third, as if he were dealing with anyone else, Edward would have already destroyed the motorcycle in a pique of annoyance at how noisy the damn thing is, and further, demons do not use _nicknames_ of any sort so it _should_ have been easy to ignore Bella's request.

And yet, he calls her by a diminutive and the motorcycle continues to survive.

He isn't sure why he allows these indulgences, or why he agrees to make pit stops to rest and eat as they continue toward the northeast. All she has to do is ask, and Edward is willing to do her bidding without much complaint.

Yes, it is certainly baffling.

Or it would have been had Edward not been Fomorian and more than aware of how the beast lurking beneath his skin had raised its head and begun panting after the girl the second she began to defy him. Finally, a challenge, and one that he does not seek to conquer entirely. His intention of writing her off as a pawn for his use has all but vanished; she is still a piece on the board, but no longer one he is willing to sacrifice. She is important. She is the Queen piece.

And she drives him wild.

At first, it's her attitude, so brash and expansive and unflinching. Then it is her scent, tart blackberries and the spice of cardamom and the faintest trace of the belladonna flowers she is named after. Then, it is the way her lips wrap around straws when they stop to eat; the way that she curls up on her side while she sleeps; the way she looks at him and how he can feel the path her eyes trace as she studies him.

And she is so curious, but not insatiably so. Unlike other Sidhe, she seems to take things at face value. Once, she asks why he can sit openly in restaurants without humans openly screaming in fright at his admittedly inhuman appearance, and after he explains the iron necklace he wears, she accepts the explanation of a functional glamor with barely a bat of the eye. She makes basic inquiries into demon cultures and proves that she is well read enough to draw lines between similar mythos that exist in human history.

He wants her – completely. Mind and body and, if demons believed in such a thing, then her heart as well.

But he is leery of tipping his hand, even in the face of her obvious reciprocation.

She is young by the standards of demons, and as is he, and these things should not be rushed.

"How old are you anyway?"

"118 years," he answers promptly on one of their rest breaks, doing his level best from envying the drop of water that lingers on her lip.

She whistles lowly. "You look good for a centenarian."

"As far as demon lifespans are concerned, I'm barely even a toddler. You are still an infant."

Her brows furrow as she digests this. "Okay, so then how old is my mother?"

"Three thousand, give or take a few decades. My forefather, Balor, was nearing six thousand when he was deemed The Mad Tyrant. It is an understatement to say that demons live for a very long time."

She snorts. "No kidding."

And while the conversation moves on, a part of his mind is relegated to the realization that any of his designs on her – including their betrothal agreement, which she is still ignorant of – are at the very least a hundred years in the making. Making any lustful maneuvers on her before she is at least a century would be extremely bad form, even for demons promised to one another.

That, alongside his new unwillingness to use her for his own gains, have changed his plans irrevocably.

He finds that, somehow, he can't even be bothered by the inconvenience. Not when the beast inside sees Bella and rumbles _mate_ with such breathtaking possession.

 ***the changeling***

Bella had the notion that the entryway into the underworld would be something cinematic, like a graveyard or an underground club or _something_. She didn't think the entryway would be some random lake way up in North Dakota, almost right on the border to Canada, and already layered with permafrost even though winter hasn't set in yet. She stands before the lake, supremely unimpressed as Edward explains that the Celtic pagans had gotten one aspect of demonology correct; apparently, all those myths about monsters creeping out from underwater to find their victims are completely on point.

Interesting. Kind of.

"I can't swim," she says once he falls silent. She watches as Edward's granite composure remains as unmoved as ever. "I'll die," she feels compelled to point out.

"You won't," he says. "This is not a normal lake."

"Obviously not, since it's the gateway to literal hell."

Edward inclines his head.

Bella looks away, scowling into the distance. She can't figure this guy out _at all_. One minute, he's completely driven to the point of disregarding her still-very-human needs, and the next he's all conciliatory and willing to talk to her more about her apparent heritage – and now, he's all urgent again, almost nervous. She'd accuse him of all of this being an elaborate plan to kill her if she didn't already trust him implicitly. So, there has to be another reason.

Because she can feel it in the air – something is _seriously wrong_ , here.

"What has you so spooked?" she demands, whirling on him with a defiant glint in her eye.

"I am not spooked," he says stiffly.

"You look like you're waiting for some big bad to pop up and eat us alive," she says bluntly.

His beryl-bright eyes sidle away, a tick in his jaw. "What do you know of Sluagh?"

"Uh, nothing."

"There is unrest in the underworld," Edward says grimly. "Some are displeased by the way demons hide themselves from humanity and someone has taken to summoning Sluagh, killing scores of demons loyal to the Queens. Unfortunately, the leader of this coup is not me-"

" _Unfortunately?_ "

"-so I have been lobbying to gain the Queens' trust so that I might be allowed to lead the Fomorians to war. My efforts thus far have been thwarted, until…"

"Until you volunteered to go fetch the prodigal daughter," she finishes solemnly, oddly upset at the idea that she's just been a tool for him.

Edward is suddenly in front of her, in her space, taking her chin between his fingers once again as he stares down at her with feverish eyes. "But my intent has changed since meeting you," he says earnestly. "I swear to you, my only desire is to see you safely into your mother's care, with the hopes that she will then grant me permission to make Faoi Domhan safe once more, so that I may court you properly when you are of age. I have not lied to you."

Bella looks up at him from beneath her lashes, swayed by the intensity in his gaze. She sighs and opens her mouth to speak – but then a shadow of movement passes the corner of her eye and she reacts on instinct, ducking even as she shouts, "Get down!"

Edward's reflexes are faster than Bella's, however, and before she can even process it, he has somehow summoned a great flaming sword into his hand, swinging it at the head of the creepy thing that just came from the lake. Edward is already well into battle with _it_ as Bella sits on her rear, stunned and trying to reconcile what is happening right before her eyes.

 _This must be a Sluagh,_ she realizes.

The creature seems solid and made of murky mist at once, gargantuan in height and terrible to look at, with flesh peeling from bone and a brackish, black stain around the gaping maw taking up more than half of its face. It looks every inch of a restless undead with an agenda to do as much damage as possible – and the damage it intends is aimed toward Bella, since the Sluagh seems to trying to fight through Edward in order to get to her.

And Edward, though he is clearly well-versed in his chosen weapon, is only just holding his own. The Sluagh is so much bigger than him, though, and it fights with a mindless sort of ferocity that Edward can't afford to have, since he's expending a great amount of effort into keeping himself between her and the Sluagh.

Even if the fire of his sword seems to hurt it, he can't last forever against this thing. Not alone.

At once, Bella springs into action, diving toward her motorcycle and flinging open the saddle pack. Part of her can't believe that she's actually doing this, because she and Jake worked on this bike together and after he died, it was the one thing she took meticulous care of, greasing her hands personally to keep its maintenance. But at the same time, Bella is dreadfully aware that she is helpless in this moment, utterly incapable of defending herself because until her birthday in a week, she's still _human_ and incapable of accessing whatever magic Sidhe have.

So this is the only thing she has.

Bella cranks open the gas tank and haphazardly wraps duct tape around the throttle and clutch handles. She crouches down, grasping for a big enough rock – _there_ – and then prepares to do the totally insane.

"Hey, Ugly!" she calls out to the Sluagh and when it turns to her, she throws the palm-sized rock as hard as she can, nailing the creature right between the eyes. It roars at her, enraged. And that's when Bella turns the key, igniting the motorcycle's engine, and lets the bike fly forward without a rider, yelling to Edward, "Set it on fire!"

Edward, to his credit, catches on rather quickly – and as the motorcycle careens toward the Sluagh, he throws his still-alight sword with deadly accuracy into the gas tank right as the bike slams into the creature –

The resulting explosion rattles the teeth in her skull and throws her onto her back as shrapnel flies into the air, alongside a deafening screech from the Sluagh.

And then all is quiet.

For a while, at least, because in the next second, Edward is hovering over her looking no worse for the wear given that his stony skin offers him such protection. Bella, however, can already feel the bruises forming on her moon-pale skin and can't help but grimace in discomfort. "Is it dead?" she asks with a groan.

"The Sluagh? Yes. Quite dead, thanks to that foolhardy gamble of yours-"

"Hey, I _saved_ you."

"You threw a rock at a Sluagh," he says, disbelieving. He sits back, running a hand through the live-wire copper hair standing in a riot atop his head, smearing soot along his hairline as he does.

"And sacrificed my bike to the cause," she says with a challenging glare. "A thank you would be nice!"

Edward doesn't thank her.

He kisses her. And it's the kind of life-affirming kiss that makes Bella dizzy, leaving her fully aware of the attraction she's been battling with since he showed up in her room – and reminding her of their conversation before disaster struck. When he pulls away, reluctantly parting their lips, the only thing she can say is, "I believe you, you know. About your change of heart, or whatever. I believe you."

And she does believe him – because her entire life, Bella has had to learn how to trust her gut when something feels wrong, and everything about Edward has always felt _right_. For the first time in a long time, everything is the way it should be.

Edward smiles crookedly at her, then shifts, holding his hand out to help her up. She takes his hand, easy as breathing, and everything seems to fall into alignment around them. And even though they've just fought a Sluagh, and there's some kind of war looming on the horizon, and Bella is going to have to deal with a family reunion with her demonic mother, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to say to Edward, "Let's go home."

They walk into the frigid water hand in hand – and they don't look back.


End file.
